The Return of the Reichenbach Hero
by StealingFireFromPrometheus
Summary: John Watson, suffering from nightmares and PTSD visits his friend's grave, only to receive a series of strange clues, clues that may or may not point to the return of a certain Mr Holmes.
1. Chapter 1

The man known as John Watson trudged through the deserted landscape, boots sinking in the sand. It was always a muddy building, dirty; it stood hunched as if it was attempting to protect itself from the sun that was unrelenting in its assault upon the crumbling brick. Outside, the sand blew up a storm and a man in uniform was forced to enter, seeking solace from the harsh weather and the rap of gunfire- a distant figure in a bleak landscape of old, decrepit buildings and sand-dunes. The whole scenario was familiar to him, a routine he had been through time and time again, with one constant, one outcome, only one. A part of him was angry that he was weak enough to let this happen time and time again, but another part of him craved the nightmares, for it was another chance to see a friend, an old friend. The nightmare was always the same, and had been for six months now, yet it still made his heart pummel against his chest as he ran in an adrenaline-fuelled sprint for safety. His hands would bunch in his sheets, and he would toss and turn in a cold sweat whilst he dreamed.

Upon entering the ruin, a familiar gunshot would tear through his senses and the smell of brick dust and something sharper would clog his nose, disrupting his breathing, his lungs tightening in his chest. The man would break into a run, trip. Then crawl. The hail of bullets showed no sign of easing up as he made his way through the empty barrack, sand dirtying his heavy trousers and covering his palms; as he moved he found his breath caught in his throat as terror knotted deep inside him. Somewhere nearby a flash-bang grenade went off and bright stars flickered in-front of his eyes, left him to stumble onward, a path he had tread too many times already. There would be a door, any moment now, as was always the case. This had become a routine John Watson was all too familiar with. All around him gunshots cracked, and someone shouted his name over and over, someone being a man he very much wanted to forget.

He walked up to the door that had appeared as he rounded the corner. It did not fit in; painted white, cleaner than the dirty surroundings, no sign of bullet holes or burns. As he rounded a corner, there it was. Waiting. It made him freeze in step, staring with suspicion, and then fear, though he was also drawn to it – there was nothing he could do to stop himself from approaching the door, now. He tried to calm his breathing to keep his eyes from watering, as a pain began to slowly work its way through his heart, burying deep into the very marrow of his bones, an ache that left him feeling empty and hollow. In his mind, he counted to ten in keeping with his breathing, but it did not help the pain in his throat that threatened to choke him. It was always the same. This ache was a friend to him now. Further away another grenade blasted and shook dust down from the ceiling of a building that was threatening to collapse, and John was roused from his temporary paralysis long enough to notice the dull throb in his leg that had returned. He would slowly edge towards the door, eyeing it as if it were a deadly predator and he its prey.

Once he arrived at the door, as inevitably he always did, he would press an ear to it and hear the roar of traffic and the noise of a crowd, the hubbub of a city that never slept. His palms, slick with sweat, would pose many issues to him as he fumbled with the handle before eventually crashing through, knocking his knee painfully in the process. From his position on the floor he could hear a conversation, and he screwed his eyes shut in an attempt to block it out in some small way, scraping his fingers along the hard cement rooftop. Anything to distract himself, anything at all. From his position on the floor he would stand, slowly, shakily, his breath coming in painful gasps.

Moriarty would already be dead on the floor - his sharp suit crumpled and creased -, the blood pooling under him and streaming out, painting the roof a disgusting red, blank eyes staring across at John, watching the doctor take the scene in. His eyes reflected the clouds in the sky, mirroring the blue in Sherlock's own and even in death, Moriarty seemed to be smirking. He knew he had won. Sherlock would be on the phone, talking. Sherlock was always on the phone. John remembered the speech well, and Sherlock's voice seemed to echo around John as he stood helpless, arm outstretched, though it was of little use, John could no longer move. Even when he tried, he found himself motionless, a statue.

"Keep your eyes fixed on me". It was a demand. Sherlock had always been so demanding, with his tendency to run off, play violin at god-knew-what-time and his arrogance. It was something that had once exasperated John. Now he just found himself missing the quirks, the little eccentricities; all those things were things that were inherently Sherlock and if anyone else had tried to pull them off, they would have earned a fat lip. And that was something John had never wished to do, even through everything that he had been subjected to, John had never wanted to hurt Sherlock. Sherlock was Sherlock, and that was fine by John. Sherlock had been quirky, difficult, but Sherlock had been a friend, something that John had so desperately needed. These thoughts in his mind, he indulged his best friend once again, unable to stop staring at the back of Sherlock's head while Moriarty's crumpled form watched the scene unfold, smugly. He could hear the sadness in Sherlock's voice, combined with his heartbeat loud in his ears. He mouthed all the things he'd wanted to say, all the thanks he had wanted to give the man, and all the ways he wished he could tell Sherlock just how much he meant. But his voice caught in his throat, locked away tight, a bird in a cage. Maybe if he'd said them, he'd have been able to save his best friend, and John resented himself for being a weak man – it was a thought that haunted him to this very day.

"This phone call, it's my note. It's what people do, don't they?" Sherlock spoke again, and John cleared his throat, tears rolling hot and fast down his cheeks as he tried to speak. But his voice wouldn't come. Moriarty's body laughed.  
"Dying._ That's _what people do" it gurgled, correcting Sherlock through the blood that undoubtedly clotted in his throat. John tried his best to ignore the words of the body and found himself able to walk towards Sherlock and away from Moriarty, though the body would turn and watch him. His limp returned with each step that he took; progressively worsening the closer he got to his friend. He got about a foot away before he stopped again, the pain in his leg unbearable as he sunk to his knees unable to hold back tears any more.

Everything moved in slow motion. Sherlock turned his head towards John, staring at him from the corner of his eye for what felt like an age, and then he would blink sadly and step off the edge of the building. John would remain frozen, watching the place where Sherlock had stood, at the city skyline – a crow flying through the air some ways away – until he heard the thud. Then he found himself able to move, and would peek over the edge of the building. Sherlock's face turned up, cold grey eyes staring up at him.

Back in London, back in the present day, John Watson sat up in bed in the wake of another nightmare that has plagued him for months. Sweat sat on his brow, and his sheets were bunched around his fists where he pulled at them in a feverish attempt to change history. It is six months since the fall, the break-down and the funeral, and two months since he had moved back into Sherlock's old apartment on a fixed rent, courtesy of Mrs Hudson. He had not wanted to return, he had wanted to leave the apartment, leave London, even leave England... leave behind everything he associated with Sherlock but Mrs Hudson had insisted. Outside, it rained and the sky was grey but to John, the sky has been grey for quite some time. Indeed, his life has been grey for quite some time. He had been stuck in a rut, on leave from his job (though nobody expected him to come back in any case) and if not for the endeavours of a certain Landlady who had taken it upon herself to ensure his safety, he very much doubted he would have been able to pull it together. If you could really call this pulling-it-together.

He no longer attended his monthly therapy appointments. He rarely left his apartment, and he hadn't spoken to another human being in days. He, in fact, had only kept one thing updated - his blog - out of some impulse, he kept it updated. It had detracted from Sherlock and the cases they had shared, for obvious reasons, and the only thing he really talked about was his day-to-day life, out of sheer boredom, to a dwindling audience who were tired of him. After all he was no longer a cause célèbre. But it was a small comfort and he took the opportunity to talk to a blank screen as often as possible. The other activity John Watson indulged in, in his day-to-day life was a pointless endeavour. The activity in question was not so much an activity, as something he did to keep himself occupied, in any way he could, and he had taken up reading. On his brief ventures out into London, he had begun collecting old poetry volumes, browsing the old shops. He enjoyed the smell of old ink and crumpled paper, and the poetry offered him some way out – he utterly absorbed himself in the words, and for a brief time, he could forget Sherlock.

Everyday John hoped that he would awake to Sherlock's presence, sometimes he even caught himself praying but what faith he'd nurtured in a higher power, already beaten down by the stint in Afghanistan, was now gone. His best friend, the man he loved, the man he hated, was gone. A large part of him knew that Sherlock wasn't coming back.

But Sherlock was brilliant. And if he really was brilliant, there was always a hope that he was alive somewhere, and he would come back, and everything would be alright again. It was a small hope, one that he was slowly letting dampen as time stretched on, and now it was only a small fire he nursed in his heart – the hope that Sherlock was okay, somewhere.

As a veteran he had been able to cope - he'd had Sherlock, and all things to do with Mr Holmes had served as a suitable distraction for him to feel better. The thrill of the cases, of the chase, his best friend had helped John to recover. Ironic then, that the same man would be the cause of so many problems, the same man who plagued his daily nightmares, the same man who had allowed him to fall into such a terrible state and even in some ways been the cause. In saving John, Sherlock may indeed have been the catalyst for his undoing. For this reason, a large part of John now resented Sherlock, everything the consulting detective had stood for. A large part of John also loved him for the very same reasons. John sighed and looked at his clock, the time being a little past 5AM. The man shuffled to the end of the bed, and stood up, stretching out with a pained grunt as his shoulder popped, before he made his way to the kitchen for a glass of water and a course of sleeping pills. After this, and after his heart had settled and he could breathe without the familiar sting of tears, he decided that sleep was the best option.

It was indeed, not till well past twelve that he emerged from his room, roused by a clatter in his front room, wrapped in a striped blue bathrobe as he looked across at his visitor – Mrs Hudson - who had gotten into the habit of letting herself in to the apartment to clean up, and generally check on John. She was currently conducting her mid-week clean up, sweeping dead flies out of the windows and washing out dirty mugs. He slowly blinked as he stumbled over an old newspaper to help Mrs Hudson, but she pushed him back into a chair and insisted that she do it, shooing him away with a feather duster that made him cough. He really should have taken better care of his apartment, but he couldn't bear to be here, where everything reminded him of Sherlock. A circlet of bullets in the wall, the smiley face taunting him, notes left on the fridge.

"After all I'm not expecting you to be over the poor dear yet. When you've shared a bond like that with another, I know, well I know it can be ha-"  
John interrupted her before she could continue, however reluctant he was to say it, he had to point it out.

"We weren't a couple."

"I don't mind you know, I'm accepting of all people!" Mrs Hudson said, with a comforting smile. John couldn't help but smile back, with a half-hearted "but I'm not gay!".  
He did not have much in the way of human contact any longer, but the contact he did have with Mrs Hudson was enough to make him feel a bit better; he needed that this morning.  
"Of course when it was my husband … well you know" She paused and looked up at him, realising he was lost in his own world, so she got on with the housework.

He sat on the sofa as he stared at his phone, which had been lodged in the seat beside him, while in the background his landlady continued her work, opening up a fridge and wrinkling her nose at what she found. Holding up a bag of something mouldy, she sighed and threw it away.  
"Oh dear you're starting to turn into Sherlock. Don't start leaving heads in here!" John, at this point was only half listening, staring down at his phone. He had a message. Nobody ever messaged him, they all found him too miserable, or simply associated him with Sherlock, and that was not something people wanted to be associated with these days.

With a small sigh, John opened it. Thought skittered through his mind, his brow furrowed in confusion.  
"Use GPS to find 243 types."  
It was not signed off. He, also had no idea who this was, he knew the phrase sounded familiar and he could not place it, but was curious nonetheless. He wanted to know who this was. Mrs Hudson looked up from her work, and from the petty gossip she had undoubtedly been revealing to John, with a small titter.  
"Off in your own world again love? Its okay, I understand. There's soup on the stove for you, for when you want it." she paused and smiled at John. "You should try going out, the weather is lovely at this time of year. The leaves are turning. Sherlock always liked autumn..." She paused, pursing her lips.  
John nodded, but did not say anything. Mrs Hudson, sensing that he perhaps wanted to be left alone, decided to walk out, though at the last minute she peeked around the doorframe and said "we can go and visit him if you'd like. It's been, well, a while since we last saw him."

John was shaken from his thought by her words, and he realised that it had been six months to the day since the funeral, he nodded again, his voice nought but a whisper.  
"Yes, thank you. That would be wonderful." And again, he smiled weakly as she nodded and softly closed the door behind her; mentioning that she would be back in a little while, leaving Doctor Watson to sit down on the sofa again, and stare at the wall. At the smiley face on the wall. It was here that John remained for quite some time, lost in thought about who the mysterious text could have been from. After a while of this, he gave up. He did not much want to be dragged into the same world that Sherlock had been a part of – he was a doctor, he had been a doctor, he dealt with physicality and what he could see in front of him, not riddles and cryptic messages.

John got up and got his coat and made his way downstairs to Mrs Hudson, where she waited with a bunch of lilies. Sherlock had never been one for flowers, or anything that served no practical purpose, and he had especially despised flowers, insisting that they were nothing but an ornament, an unnecessary furnishing that served no purpose. In this respect, sometimes John wondered whether his friendship with Sherlock had been unnecessary, whether he had just been something to adorn Sherlock's life. The pair had become joined at the hip, inseparable, and John was surprised by just how quickly he and Sherlock had clicked, and John despised him for it. He counted the what-ifs. What if he hadn't got so attached? What if he'd never gotten so settled down in this apartment? What if he and Sherlock hadn't grown so close? But despite this, John had loved Sherlock, and he supposed he should be thankful for that. He was pretty sure Sherlock had harboured some feelings for him in return, but he had never talked to the detective about it and he had missed his chance to do so. Sherlock had never been one for deep emotional conversations. He had not been one for emotions.

In any case, the landlady had insisted upon flowers, so John refrained from commenting. The taxi they had ordered was there, beeping its horn so they got in and gave. Watson was lost in thought as he watched the scenery pass, listening to the inane pop music that the cab's radio played, considering his options. Mrs Hudson put a comforting hand upon his, and he smiled, squeezing her wrinkled palm a little in return, her skin was soft and he focused upon that. Outside it began to rain a little and inside the cab the overpowering smell of lilies, sickly sweet, became a little too much for the doctor, who opened the window to let some air in. He did not venture out much nowadays, sometimes he went out for groceries, sometimes for wine, sometimes he walked along the streets late at night for some solitude but other than that the only times he ventured out of his apartment was to go and see Sherlock. It was not agoraphobia, as Mrs Hudson had so often tried to impress upon John, but he did not see the point in going outside any more. Outside was dangerous without Sherlock, outside he could get taken by Mycroft or Lestrade, outside he wasn't with his things, and the things that made him feel most safe.

As the car pulled in to the driveway of the small churchyard, Mrs Hudson decided to stay within the cab; the rain prevented her from going outside lest she catch a cold. John however, took her lilies and went out, the rain was harsh and driving and stung his face. Visiting the graveyard always made him sad, but not just sad, something more than that. A dull emotion that left him confused and depressed and stuck with him for weeks at a time. He strode past the rows of gravestones, tracing a familiar path, till he reached Sherlock's solemn headstone. It had worn little since the funeral, the gold lettering had faded to a dull brown, something that saddened John far too much. It worried him, sometimes. Would his memories of Sherlock fade too like the writing on the headstone. He crouched down and removed the old bouquet of flowers that had since withered and died, replacing them with the rather extravagant lilies, that brightened the headstone a little. One hand on the gravestone, he began to speak.

"Last time I was he- every time I have been here, I have begged you to -. Even you can't come back from the dead. You were brilliant but you were human. You aren't coming back, are you?" he took a deep breath and sighed, almost disappointed that he got no reply, that Sherlock didn't just appear over his shoulder and explain the situation, like he once had, as if everything were so simple. His voice now nothing but a whisper, as if afraid that he might be heard by the ghosts of the dead.  
"Just, please Sherlock. If there's any chance you're alive, just please. Tell me."  
Afraid that Sherlock would still mock him for daring to call him a friend. He stopped talking now, finding it all too painful to continue, swallowing the rest of his words as he slowly pulled back his hand, cold from the black marble.

As he straightened up and saluted the headstone, he took the withered bouquet with him and noticed that there was something lodged in there. If he had not searched he would not have seen it, for it was wedged in the middle of the bouquet. It seemed to be a piece of card with something scrawled across it. John prised it out, head bowed against the rain that was unrelenting as he made his way back to the car. On the paper was an untidy scrawl, written apparently by someone who must have been half asleep, and he hoped to get a better look at it once he was at home. The journey was slow, and John, despite the little exertion he put out, was incredibly tired and it was with weariness that he waved off Mrs Hudson, and exited to return upstairs. Once back, he slid off his coat and sat, fished the slip from his pocket so that he could stare at it with bleary eyes.

John unfurled the paper which was slightly dampened from the rain and he could read the handwriting. It was a familiar scrawl, one that brought back memories of notes left on fridges, under books and on apartment doors. The message was as such:  
"Do not stand at my grave and cry. I am not there; I did not die."  
The doctor, shocked, read and re-read the passage. Of course he knew that poem, but this line...

It was almost as if someone had sent him a message. Him, John. And he could think of nobody who would want to send him a message, save for one. John entertained the thought that Sherlock was still alive, even though it was a daft way of thinking, a lunatics way. It was just the sort of infuriating thing that Sherlock would have done, lead him on like this, toy with him, and instead of sorrow, he felt angry. This was evidently someone's idea of a joke, an infuriating, saddening taunt.

John stared at the paper, wondering if the thoughts that were circulating were entirely sensible, or whether he was going mad. He supposed the latter. His gaze flickered up to his mobile, wonder coursing through his veins. Could it be that the text had been from Sherlock, another clue that he had been sent? No. That was a stupid thought, dead men didn't talk, he was silly for even thinking it. His phone was still on the sofa, untouched – the only use his phone got now were the rare times that the Doctor would call Sherlock's phone, if only to hear the voice-mail. John picked it up and stared at it, then decided what he was going to do.

Yes, Dr Watson had called Sherlock. John had got into the habit of calling the phone, just to hear his voice and sometimes just begging him to not be dead if it had been a particularly long week and John had been at the red wine again. It was a habit he hadn't particularly wanted to get into but had done so nonetheless, a small way of coping that left him emptier with each ring. It was no lie that a small comfort came from the disgruntled voice message that Sherlock had recorded some years previous (one that John had made him record), and more often than not John called simply to hear Sherlock's voice. It was a voice he did not want to forget. John knew Sherlock shared no such sentimentalities, he hadn't cared for the doctor in many ways, but there were flashes of emotion in Sherlock. A sadness in his eye when he saw John distraught, an over-zealous protective streak, the assertion that he and John were "friends", a word he choked out on occasion. On the whole, however, Sherlock was as emotive as a rock, and that had exasperated John.

It was days such as these that John would call Sherlock. When the nightmares had become too much and a night of tossing and turning had left him completely empty inside, with a deep ache that resonated within his very bones. Today was no exception. In the past Sherlock would have been there in the aftermath of a nightmare, sometimes even waking up John when the screaming became too loud out of some small concern, or perhaps, more likely, so that he himself could sleep. Still, he had always provided a source of comfort, and on one occasion had held John while the man sobbed in the wake of a particularly nasty dream. Sherlock had offered a cool touch and a soothing word when John was particularly distraught, and though the detective had known nothing much of PTSD, his presence alone been enough to calm John. Of course, on other occasions, Sherlock had been less than comforting; demanding that John just pull it together; get a grip; tired of the veteran's constant fear, but on the whole he had been a friend. It had been a large comfort, one of the reasons John had recovered as he had. But now the man in question was the man John dreamed about and he had nobody to comfort him when he woke, and nothing except the silence of the apartment. Now all he had after a bad week was the voice-mail. The only thing that made him feel partially better was the prospect of hearing Sherlock's voice again.

John passed through the living room and took his phone with him, the room was strangely sterile – the police department had returned all of Sherlock's belongings, out of respect and pity for the good doctor. Mrs Hudson was unsure of what to do with the boxes and Doctor Watson had not opened many of them. They were still bagged and tagged, as they had been for months now, the things that were, in essence, Sherlock Holmes. John daren't open them, lest he sully them and the memory of a great man. That and he wasn't entirely sure what some of it was, and admittedly some of it looked incredibly dangerous. Sherlock had never been the most responsible, a cause of anguish for the Doctor now that he was left in the fallout. There was one thing with a curious bladed contraption, it looked positively lethal. And then there were the chemicals, he kept those in the fridge, unsure of how to dispose of them. He had no idea where those eyeballs had gone, though he supposed that the police had kept those, ditto the thumbs. Once in the kitchen, John filled a glass and eyed up his phone as he took a sip and pressed the dial button so that he might hear Sherlock's voice again; his hands shaking as the phone began to ring. It was always too long a wait for so short a fix, and he was saddened that he was reduced to such measures to feel better himself. It was also slightly shameful, he felt weak for it.

And then it happened, and John was unsure, really, of what it was but he knew it was something different, something that was strange. Instead of the usual voice message intoning the reasons why Sherlock was likely busy and unable to reach the phone, then proceeding on to inform the listener that he probably wouldn't reply, there was, well, there was something else.

A soft sigh, causing John to frown and glare at the bare cupboards in front of him he waited, somewhat impatiently, for the message. And then there was a voice, someone who sounded awfully irritated.

"Oh bloody hell John!"

And then the line cut off, leaving John in a stunned silence as he stared at the cupboard, a lump in his throat as he swallowed hard. After that, he went and sat down in the living room, the phone still in his hand, as he stared at the phone with something akin to horror. Dead men couldn't talk, that was impossible. He had seen Sherlock, and the blood, his memories weren't fake, the blood, spilling out red across the pavement, his limp wrist falling to the ground and the funeral, breaking down at his grave; all of it was real, he had experienced it and there was no way that was a lie, there was no way that Sherlock was alive. He pressed the dial button again, and waited for the phone to ring through.

This time the phone was cut off before even going through to a voice-mail, or being answered, making it very clear that there was someone on the other end, and they did not want to be contacted in any way by John. This piqued his interest for a few moments as he toyed with the fantastical; Sherlock Holmes was alive. Alive and well. The thought that the man he loved may well in fact exist still, no longer confined to a memory made John's heart leap in a painful lurch and suddenly he felt quite ill. Why had Sherlock not returned to the apartment, to his things… to John? Admittedly, John had ulterior motives for wanting to see Sherlock but he also, in the most simple terms, missed his best friend.

Still, the thought was there. Someone had Sherlock's phone. Someone had answered the phone and of course, there were the notes and the strange texts. It was just the sort of game a man like Sherlock might play with John, he was after all, an arrogant berk at the best of times – the thought made John smile. Any hope that his friend might be alive was a hope he was willing to entertain, and that was enough for him. Dr Watson knew it was daft, but there was something nagging at him now and he had to know, and the ache that had subsided when he had heard the voice was now a hungry ache, hungry for something that only one person could give. And if there was even the slightest hope that Sherlock was alive and well John was determined to bring him back. He realised that he hadn't taken a breath since and he exhaled sharply as he decided to retreat back to the bedroom. Sleep, no matter how distressing, was something he did often. Though he just lay in his bed, thinking, the sheets wrapped around him in an attempt to warm a chill that sunk through his body.

This was all a bit much to process for him, the sudden shock that someone had been on the other end of the phone, and he had been texted, and of course the note; it was too perfect. Too planned, it was a theatrical streak that Holmes had harboured – he had always liked an audience. Why would Sherlock return after months of playing the absentee, if indeed he was even alive, a thought which now he considered, John found preposterous. He wasn't some toy for Sherlock to play with, something he could use and cast aside then return to –especially not if he had tricked John into thinking he were dead- that was not what… _friends_ did. This was just like the detective, for all his investigative skills, he was not the best with people nor their emotions, too fond of breaking them down logically; John knew this, he had known this for quite some time, and no matter how difficult Sherlock was there was a loyalty that remained for his old friend.

His heart beat fast and hard and he went over all the other possible options in his head, worry coursing through his veins like acid. Of course Sherlock wasn't alive! It was impossible to survive a fall that great, wasn't it? He entertained the possibility that it was one of Moriarty's associates, here to finish the job. Admittedly, to John, he had thought of a way out such as Sherlock's, and had entertained the possibility of taking few too many pills and swallowing bleach, or of carrying a toaster into his bath with him. He had quickly swept these thoughts away and resolved to keep on going; he was a fighter after all. No matter how painful it got. The second possibility, of course, was that it was Mycroft Holmes and another shoddy attempt at getting in touch with Watson. He had tried and failed to do so several times, only succeeding in angering John, but he very much doubted the man would stoop to such a measure, not even he was capable of that. He at least had some semblance of emotion, even if it was a carefully maintained mask. There was another option, one he did not care to consider.

John doubted that it was possible to survive a fall from such a height, in any such case, so it could not be Sherlock and he could not for the life of him think of anyone who had done so. The injuries sustained from such a fall were, at best, known to cause fractures of the skull and back, not something easily recovered from. Even still the hope in his mind was a small one, and the thought that Sherlock was alive had grown from embers to a small fire. Doctor Watson himself had never heard of anyone surviving a fall that great, and he doubted he knew anyone who-

Of course! Molly would know, she had more experience with the dead-side of things than he. John mentally kicked himself for not thinking of this, of her, before, and rushed to pick up his phone, throwing the covers off his bed so that he could better search. The phone rang and rang, and John hoped that she would pick up: anything that could keep his hopes alive was something that he would grab with both hands and not let go of. After a while, Molly did indeed pick up. John felt slightly bad at calling her; after all he had not kept in touch with anyone, preferring the darkness of a bedroom behind closed curtains.

"Hullo?"  
John paused and considered how to reply, eventually managing to say something, though he stuttered.  
"Yes, hello. So sorry to bother you and I don't know if you would remember me... I'm J-"  
"Yes I remember, of course I do."  
"John Watson, yes." John frowned, wondering if he had maybe caught her at a bad moment. And then he thought of Sherlock and pushed his thoughts aside, as he remembered the rare times that the man had smiled. He would see that smile again, if he could.  
"Sherlock's friend."  
"Yes, that's right, I was Sherlock's...friend. Anyway I was wondering if I could talk to you about something, maybe? If that's alright."  
John paused as the woman on the other end of the phone sighed, then replied with an affirmative.

"Right, well then. I was wondering, well, um, if it was entirely possible to survive a fall from a 2 storey building?"  
Molly, on the other end, sighed, though it was a sadder sigh and she seemed to be pulling up a chair from the scraping sound that John could hear. As if she had been anticipating this conversation.  
"Listen, John. I know it's hard to accept but Sherlock is dead. I know you liked him very much but he is dead. We went to the funeral. You saw the body... you were there! You-"  
John paused, trying to block out what she was saying as a familiar pang rose up in his throat and he blinked, pressing the bridge of his nose simply to do something with his spare hand.  
"Yes, I know. I just. Please tell me. It's possible?"  
"Well, yes it's plausible that you could survive. If you rolle-"  
John paused, his breath catching in his throat.  
"So it could happen?"  
"Yes, yes it co- Listen John, where is this coming from?"  
"Sorry I'm rather busy, I'll explain later."

And, despite Molly's protests he hung up on the morgue attendant, putting his phone aside so that he could stare down at his hands, the crinkles and folds in his skin, worn like bark on a tree, as he pressed his fingers together. It was possible then, that Sherlock could have survived. That was all he needed to know. He had several clues, and he had a small hope that he was willing to cherish and for the man, that was enough. He hung his head, and stared down at his feet, his eyes watering painfully as a thought skittered through his mind, a thought that had been lurking there for quite some time now. If Sherlock was alive, why hadn't he come back? Surely he counted John as enough of a friend to do so, and the thought permeated through his conscious and he felt very ill indeed. He had always been under the impression that Sherlock looked upon him as a friend, an admittedly slow friend, when you compared yourself to Sherlock. But then that could be said about everyone. The fact that whoever this was – and if this was Sherlock – had contacted John was enough for him to look into this. A consulting detective he was not, but he could do this, he was determined.

The doctor realised he was getting carried away with these thoughts. It was only a slim possibility, only a small chance that he was alive, and he was probably gearing himself up for a massive disappointment. He was still curious and this was still a coincidence he just had to investigate. Something about it felt distinctly like Sherlock; he who would hide John's key and lock him in his room, call him up and expect him to bring his rifle, he who all too often played with people like he were a puppeteer. John had to admit to himself that this was a bit too much like something Sherlock would do. He did not want to get his hopes up, yet he found himself doing just that. Something about this had a touch of familiarity that was simply too good to pass up on.

The doctor glanced down at his shoes, sighing softly as he did. He missed Sherlock, and none of this made any sense. John was not logical nor as methodical as Sherlock, Sherlock never missed an opportunity to say as much – was that what the man was doing now? Mocking him? Pointing out that he was never going to be intelligent enough, that he would be lost forever… he had to earn back his friendship? A stupid idea! Sherlock had always known John, like everyone else, was never as brilliant as he.

He stood up, turned the soup on the stove on, and boiled the kettle. All he wanted right now was a cup of tea, something to calm his nerves and help him think straight, if such a thing were possible. It had been a long day, a long ordeal, and he needed some rest. John had been Sherlock's friend, he was sure of it. No matter how reluctantly the consultant would spit the word out, he knew that they were friends, and friends didn't hide away and fake deaths, friends didn't mock and tease and persist in belittling one another. But this was surely a miracle, and John was a man not accustomed to miracles. Finally, John admitted it to himself. He had no idea who it was and there was a strong possibility that he was chasing at memories, changing the facts to suit the theories rather than matching theories to fact. It had taken quite some time to admit to himself that he had loved the man known as Sherlock Holmes, and by that time it was already far too late and Sherlock had jumped off of St Bart's and John had been left nursing not only a broken heart but the realisation that he had lost a best friend.

John had always known he bore no attraction to women, but the concept of attraction to another man had always been past him, something he had never considered. He had entertained several women through his life, and had never developed anything other than basic romantic feelings for any of them, and none of those relationships had ended well. They had all seem to know that he was infatuated with Sherlock – something he had not wanted to admit to himself - which was what he supposed had made it so hard for him. Even if, at times, Sherlock was nothing more than an irritating git, John had become attached to him in more ways than he had realised.

By now the soup was boiled, and John sat down at his table and ate straight from the pan, balancing it in his lap while he ate. It was a simple stew of mutton, peas and potatoes, but it tasted good. The doctor's mind was on other things, however, and he did not finish it and instead started up the computer, seeing fit to update his blog. Propping his chin on his hand, he stared at the screen and wondered where to begin, what to say. He recounted the events of the previous day, what had happened and suchlike, rambling on for a good hour or so.

John leaned back from his computer and stared at the blog post, all too aware that he appeared a rambling madman and more than painfully aware that he was being, in Sherlock's words, an idiot. Another pang rang through him, he felt very tired, much more tired than he had before, and so he retreated to his bedroom. That night he fell asleep clutching the piece of paper, having spent a large amount of time staring at it and trying to decipher just who had written it as he lay on the bed.

That night he dreamt of Sherlock. Half of his head gone, sacrificed to a gun, as he spoke with Moriarty's voice and laughed, taunting John for being a fool, too easily lead by his heart, mocking emotions.


	2. Chapter 2

He woke up in a cold sweat, shaking and shivering, tears in his eyes. The first thing he did at this point was put on the kettle and drink several cups of tea - Earl Grey because it helped him wake up -. Walking past piles of papers and boxes, old cases that had been left untouched because they were "boring", John once again sat down at his computer. His blog was still open, though he noticed that his most recent post had a comment and so he opened it. It was anonymous, though the words appeared sent a shiver down his spine.

"I believe in John Watson."  
John took rather a long gulp from his tea, spluttered and spilled half of it down his front, while staring at the comment. This couldn't be happening. He took a shaky breath and typed a hasty reply, finishing off his tea and pouring himself another from the still-warm pot.  
"Who is this?"  
An obvious question he supposed. John waited for a reply, clutching his mug between his hands and stared at the screen, his heart pounding a pain that was familiar but not welcomed. Another reply from whomever this was. It was strange that he received a reply so soon, almost as if someone were waiting for him.  
"It really is quite simple. Elementary, even."  
The doctor continued staring at the screen, he could envisage the other man writing and smirking at him, in his patronising, infuriating manner, eventually his breath steadied and his pulse slowed down, though he did not reply. He half expected the messages to suddenly disappear, for this to be a figment of his imagination. He did not want to get his own hopes up only to have them dashed, and this anonymous message really did nothing to assuage the doubts that now ran rampant in his mind.

So this was the game he was playing, eh? John did not appreciate being teased, even less so when the person doing the teasing was someone he had presumed dead for quite some time; this was such a Sherlock thing to do, sit back and watch John for his entertainment. A social experiment, undoubtedly. After this small exchange he was only more annoyed with this man, who saw fit to mock him. He decided the time was right to get round to searching for whomever this was, so he boiled a new pot of tea and crossed his arms, deciding to begin searching for clues relating to the items he had found. He could imagine Sherlock sitting across the room from him, laughing at John's foolish attempts.

While this was going on, much further away in a large house a man sat in a room, surrounded by lots of other men, reading that morning's newspaper, spending a significant amount of time upon the financial section. He was wearing a navy blue suit, an umbrella propped up against the seat that he took for himself. On a small wooden table nearby there stood a thin bone-china cup, filled with coffee; a second mug with tea in it and a considerably smaller plate of cake. He sat with another man who was sighing a lot, and fidgeting, a phone clutched in his hand and his head propped against his other; he sat opposite the man, glaring at the newspaper for it stood in the way of a clear view of his face. He was nothing if not persistent.  
"How much longer will insist upon babysitting me?" he demanded, shifting in his chair, crossing and uncrossing his legs.  
"However long it takes for him to be tracked down. You were the one, were you not, who stayed here so that you might not lead him to your little friend." The other man peered over the top of his paper and reached over for a slice of cake, biting into it as he looked back up, looking at his brother. "After all, we don't want a trained mercenary finding John." He smiled, smarmily, and sipped from his cup while Sherlock Holmes sighed.  
"And how long is that going to take? I had no idea you were so incompetent." He rapped his fingers against the table, impatience shining through in the grim frown he wore. The man Sherlock Holmes looked very much the same as he had done in years gone by, save for the small scar that marred his brow now and a dappling of bruises that blushed across his collarbone, and the fact he was in desperate need of a haircut.

Mycroft looked up from his cake plate (all that remained were crumbs) and sighed.  
"We're very close to apprehending him and we may have someone who can offer their services. In the meantime stay put, and for the love of God, behave yourself!"  
Sherlock looked up from his study of the magenta carpet, frowning, as he opened his mouth to say something, though Mycroft interrupted him.  
"You surely don't think I wouldn't keep tabs on you after everything that happened?" He paused, and sipped his coffee again, continuing in a manner that suggested that he were talking to a small child.  
"You got yourself in a lot of trouble, Sherlock. And this time it isn't just breaking Mummy's china. This is the sort of trouble that doesn't just clean itself up - I had to do a lot of sweeping under the carpet for you. And you aren't helping." He enunciated each word precisely, slowly, for emphasis. Sherlock just rolled his eyes.

"You always were a drama queen."

Mycroft ignored this statement – he would have thought he was stating the obvious where this issue was concerned, especially to his detective brother, and finished his cup, put it down, folded up his paper neatly and placed it in the chair as he stood up. Then he took his umbrella, and began walking away. He turned at the last minute and smiled sadly.

"I know you miss him, he was your friend after all."  
Sherlock interrupted him at this point - "he wasn't my friend, you know how I feel about him"- and Mycroft ignored this, continued on.  
"Moran is not one to be messed with, Sherlock. Just stay put till we clear up this mess." He stopped, hesitating at the almost sad expression Sherlock bore and then smiled apologetically. "Do you understand?"

Sherlock did not speak but nodded as a scolded schoolboy might, hands by his sides as he watched his brother disappear. He stood straight, shook out the collar of his shirt, and took up Mycroft's place, as was usual for him now. It was no secret that he missed John, everything he had done he had done to protect him, and it would be counter-productive to ruin that now. But, truth be told, he was stir crazy. He had been confined to this building ever since waking up from the coma, a few weeks back and the first person he had hoped to see was absent. Upon waking he had learned that Mycroft had orchestrated a fake-suicide scenario to protect the brother he begrudgingly cared about. It seemed that once his brother had learned of his survival he had been unable to stop himself from meddling in some way, though Sherlock supposed that it was for his benefit. It would appear that Moriarty was not content with just killing Holmes, and had hired out a mercenary. The mercenary in question, Moran, had landed in Britain a month ago and was on the prowl for John. And for that Sherlock felt so useless. He wanted to be out, searching for clues and solving crimes, and more than anything he wanted to see John. He wanted to help John, but instead, he was stuck here. The novelty was wearing off more and more as the days went by and the only company he had were the dull old men who stayed here, in the Diogenes Club, and his own thoughts.

He flicked through the paper with disinterest. Every day now it had been the same: wake up; read newspaper; watch Mycroft eat cake (which he was sure was not a part of the diet); drink tea; go back to his quarters and sleep. His violin was back at his apartment and he was not going to play on anything but _his_ violin, so he had found no such similar distraction, and he was sure he could feel his IQ dropping by the day. He'd be just like Anderson when he emerged, at this rate. A sobering thought. This ritual was beginning to bore him to, well, death. Sherlock sighed, for days now he had been growing more frustrated. After finishing the paper, he got up and retreated back to his quarters, where he had a ball that he bounced against the wall. He did this for hours upon hours, it helped him think, and he would play out ideal scenarios in his head all the while.

John had been racking his brains, searching his notes, and now had ended up searching Google for nigh on three hours and he was no closer to finding any clues, nor was he any closer to discovering just what this mystery person wanted. Of course, with all things considered, he was now entirely sure he knew just who this person was and he was angry and excited in equal measures, the emotions blossoming deep within his chest and filling him with something he had not felt in a long time. Still, he was no closer to the answer than he had been hours before, a fact that frustrated him to no end. How could Sherlock expect him to be brilliant? It was no secret that he was not as intelligent as Sherlock, and though he was far from ignorant, Sherlock was such an obscurity. Not to mention that it had been months since he had taken up a case and he had grown out of practise in the time since.

The only thing he had worked out was that the number, 243 types, was referring to tobacco. He had remembered this when he had a sudden brainwave and had gone through Sherlock's notes – he had been in the habit of handwriting all of his blog posts before posting them, no doubt for posterity. But, as a standalone clue tobacco meant relatively little to him, after all there were many purveyors of such a material in London from basic corner shops to emporiums. And he had never shared Sherlock's enthusiasm for tobacco. He supposed that GPS was another clue but he had no idea what linked GPS and tobacco, and whatever it was it was sure to be obscure. This was, after all, a code from a dead man – it would not be easy to crack. John had to admit that this whole situation was tiresome and he found himself losing his patience just a little, not entirely sure what was expected of him and, more to the point, unsure of whether he could even do it. This whole situation was not something he enjoyed. The doctor pushed back from the computer with a frustrated grunt, determined to put space between him and the blasted thing. There was one benefit to all this time spent on the computer, however, and that was that his typing had got substantially better.

John raided the fridge for food, realising he had whiled away the hours on the computer and needed food, knowing that Mrs Hudson would have left him a little something even if he had not asked for it. Inside he found a cheese roll and a piece of cake, which he ate. Hopefully food would help him feel better and if not, at least it would clear his head a little. He leaned against the counter and stared into the living room, at the boxes that contained Sherlock's things. Rain tapped against the kitchen window, and a wind rattled the panes, though John did not notice for he was entirely lost in his thoughts. It was a day such as this that John had once introduced Sherlock to poker, parlour games not being something that Sherlock enjoyed much, Sherlock has only entertained the doctor out of politeness and perhaps boredom, he was sure. Mrs Hudson had provided fresh coffee and biscuits and together the pair had sat and played. It had not taken long for Sherlock to beat John, who considered himself utterly trounced and to this day he had no idea how Sherlock had done it. It was just the sort of thing Sherlock enjoyed doing, beating people. John hadn't minded, Sherlock was brilliant.

John smiled at the memory, pouring himself a cup of tea as the rain continued to beat a melody into the window. When finished he walked back to the computer, deciding that he ought to continue his search and at a total loss for what else to do, typed "GPS tobacco London" into the search engine. The first result that popped up was Google's own suggestion; _"did you mean Tomtoms tobacco, London?" _and John's heart lurched as he clicked on the link. Tomtoms was a shop that had closed down six months ago, it sold coffee and tobacco and various other things and John realised the strenuous link between GPS and tobacco, and silently cursed his friend for being so damned oblique. But, he pushed aside those thoughts. He had a possible location, and a possible clue, and anything that brought him closer to answers was enough for him. John began to worry that the link was far too obvious for mere coincidence, worried that it could have been a red herring. He relented and decided to visit the premises anyway for he had nothing to lose, and even if he gained nothing, maybe he would find the real solution. John pulled on his coat and locked the apartment up behind him as he stepped out for the second time that week.

It was growing dark and the sky was many different shades of grey as the rain, unrelenting in its force, ground down on the city of London. John decided he needed a walk and did not take the tube – he needed the exercise – and so walked down the slick streets, cane in tow. Mrs Hudson had been right, it was a nice time of year and despite the rain, he found himself enjoying the time out. John was still worried, he had no idea who this person was, he had no idea if he were following the right directions or even if he was walking straight into a trap, he kicked himself for not entertaining that possibility before. Of course, his mind jumped to Sherlock because that was who he so desperately wanted to see but it could have been anyone.

He did not notice the tall man following him, nor the fact that this man had been tailing him ever since he had left the apartment, moving from a bench directly adjacent to his kitchen window, dogging his tracks. But the veteran, lost in his thoughts, did not even consider the matter – the thought that he was a wanted man by some was not forefront in his mind. John drew his collar up and around his neck, shivering as he pulled his zip further up to protect him from the cold that seeped through. He had so rarely ventured out that he had forgotten just what London was like, the smell of cars and fast food, the patter of rain and the chatter of people walking by. Indeed those same people who walked into him, pushing into his shoulder with tuts and evil glances. Good old London. A city you could rely upon when you were in search of rude people, which tonight, he decided, were out in abundance – though maybe, in hindsight, he was just unused to being outside. He felt a little more comfortable being out than he had been in quite some time, though he did not know if it was because of the situation or the prospects. Worry still knotted hard in his stomach, tightening across his body painfully; worry that he was being lead on; worry that he was being a fool and the biggest worry of all that left his breath in tatters, that Sherlock was not alive and well. These worries increased in frequency the closer he got to his destination, knotting harshly against his heart.

John concentrated instead upon the drone of traffic and the monotony of inner-city life, especially without Sherlock to accompany him through the streets and make sarcastic comments, as he had used to. Life had been more exciting with Sherlock. If he had been present it was likely John would have been jogging after him as his partner was prone to running off after something, without much warning. Indeed he had frequently left John to take a taxi home by himself after going off on one of his chases. If he had not been sarcastic, or running about, Sherlock would undoubtedly have been complaining about how boring everything and everyone was compared to his brain. A habit that at the time, John had despised, but in hindsight was something he found endearing.

For fear of getting wetter than he already was, John hurried his pace as best he could. If he had looked behind him he might have seen the figure, always a few paces back, a few people behind, but he did not. John was distracted, excitement and concern shimmering in equal measure. Several of the trees in the area were turning glorious shades, like rust and dusky tones and sunlight that adorned the boughs of trees. As Watson neared the corner, the figure behind him crossed the road and sat down on a bench, underneath a bus shelter, still watching him. He was wearing a deerstalker. John came to the shop, and it was indeed abandoned. Windows boarded with soggy planks and orange nails, "sorry we're closed" sign stapled onto the planks, dust clung to the door. The sign had fallen into disrepair in the short time that the shop had been closed. John tried the handle several times, hoping that it would suddenly spring open, but it was to no avail. He tried shouldering the door but he earned strange looks from passers-by and only sufficed in hurting his shoulder. He tried searching for a key or something, but there was nothing. Nothing to suggest that anyone had been here.

The first thing he felt was a sinking realisation that he was wrong. He controlled his breathing and attempted to hold back disappointment, the sinking realisation in his heart. But John kept himself in check; Sherlock had never liked outward displays of emotion. Disappointment welled in his chest, and he was angry and upset and frustrated, and saddened, and this was all Sherlock's fault, all his bloody fault, everything he had done was so incredibly selfish. Killing himself, or faking it, or whatever the bloody hell he had done, it was all so selfish and John felt a surge of anger towards him, cursing the man for a while. The figure across the street shifted uncomfortably, as he watched the scene, looking up occasionally at the man, almost with impatience.

Honestly, what had John expected? Sherlock was dead, the dead didn't just spring back to life, you didn't survive a fall like that, and Molly was probably just being polite. He knew it was stupid to cry, and Sherlock would only have scorned him for being so emotional, crying would get nothing accomplished but that was all he wanted to do at this point in time, he had fallen at the first hurdle. He had failed.

By chance, as John stood up and got ready to leave he looked behind him, hoping that the door had opened by itself and instead spotted the parcel that was wedged under the door, it was small and relatively flat, your run of the mill brown paper parcel, albeit dampened by the weather. John seized it, pocketed it and began walking back to his apartment, his haunt. The figure stayed on the bench but turned his head and watched John leave, satisfied. Then he folded up his newspaper with a sharp flick of his wrist, and placed it on the bench, getting into a black cab that had pulled up next to him. He got in after a hesitation, and a glance towards the direction John had walked in, resting against the cab as he shook his head. Then, he got in and the cab drove off.

By the time John got home it was quite late and though he was tired, physically and emotionally, he sat down at the table and shrugged off his coat, more interested in opening the parcel than anything else. On the one hand he could find out another crumb of truth or he could have his suspicions confirmed and it turned out to be something entirely unrelated to the man he loved. He wasn't sure of which outcome he was more terrified of, and toyed with the options in his mind for quite some time, eventually deciding to open the parcel. He ripped the adhesive strip away, throwing it to the side and shook the contents out on to the table. A scarf fell with a soft rustle, another note attached to it, and a receipt fell out soon after. John picked up the scarf first.

It was blue. Dark blue. And it was most definitely Sherlock's, John remembered it well -after all Sherlock had never left the apartment without it- and John tentatively pulled the scarf up and pressed it to his nose, putting the note to one side. Yes, it smelled like Sherlock, a pleasant mix of cologne, soap and washing powder. The material scratched against his face but it was a small enough comfort. The next item he picked up was the receipt and he recognised it as one of his own, that he had thrown away, a remnant from an afternoon brunch he had treated Mrs Hudson to a few weeks back at Speedy's Cafe. Sherlock had always hated brunch. John left it as it was, finding it none too interesting, and picked up the note instead. It was slightly larger than the previous strip of paper, but the handwriting was the same – though a little neater – and as such, it was much easier for John to read. It was another excerpt of a poem, though John did not recognise this one.  
"Me the loving and you the loth, while the one eludes, the other pursues" and John had no idea what this meant. He presumed that it had some variety of connection, just as the previous note had, but he did not know what this time. It sounded old. Whoever it was, this person seemed to know an awful lot about the situation and this only affirmed his view that it was Sherlock being an abstinent moron.

The scarf was still in his hand, and he stroked it with his thumb, holding on to a little bit of Sherlock and reading and re-reading the note, mouthing each word; after a while he got up and pinned it to the fridge, where it resided with the other strip and various other notes. John decided to communicate with him the only way he knew how, and from the only place he had got some sort of response, his blog. He had become dependent upon his computer for many things, not least of all so that he might feel a mite less lonely.

It was merely an update on how and what he had found, which was not much as of right now and he tried to restrict his excited babbling, just in case it was still not real and he was indeed going a little bit round-the-bend. The scarf was around his neck now, more so that he did not lose it than anything, though it was a comfort. He leaned back on the edge of his chair and groaned as he stretched, closing down his computer so that he could get an early night. Sherlock's scarf took pride of place on his bedside table, and he burrowed himself in his sheets and fell asleep to the gentle sound of rain.

It was the first decent night's sleep he had in a long while, though his dreams were the same, or more aptly put, his nightmares were the same. And tonight he dreamed of Sherlock's hand, as he had let go and closed his eyes, blood on John's hands. Sherlock's blood.


	3. Chapter 3

John awoke, stretched and sighed, then yawned widely. He started the day on a stale bowl of cereal and some toast, and opted for a large mug of coffee. He ate his breakfast in silence, watching the second hand on the clock tick by from his spot in the kitchen and as he ate he was reminded of the receipt on the table. It was from a café down the road, but John wondered what this person, if indeed it was Sherlock, was doing with a receipt from said shop. The detective found conversation shared between "normal people" inane, though no matter how much he tried to deny it, he had a soft spot for cake, Victoria Sponge specifically. Mrs Hudson had always made sure to drop round with a slice or two when she came back. John fiddled with the thin paper and decided to research as much as he could on everything he could find on the receipt. He whiled away the hours searching for post-codes and phone numbers, even researching the name of the cashier who had served them that day, to no avail. All of the searching had made him hungry, and he decided that he would venture out once more, this time to the same place he had been researching. Maybe in between a coffee, he would find another answer.

The shop, Speedy's Café, was a shop on the corner of his road, offering a variety of things; from greasy bacon sandwiches to cake, of a substantially better quality than was to be expected from such an establishment. Sherlock had, no matter how he denied it on many an occasion pestered the landlady to bring some cake back whenever she went out. John decided that this was an occasion for cake, and so he ordered several – hoping to take some back to Mrs Hudson as a partial thanks – and he ordered a cup of tea, too. In his usual seat by the window, he could see the goings on in the street and all the passers-by, though he managed to miss the black car that stopped right outside of the café, and too, the person who stepped out of it. John slowly began working his way through his first slice of cake; half wondering if _anyone _would be able to finish this much. It was at this point that a certain someone sat down opposite him.

The someone in question wore silver cuff-links over a dark blue shirt, smart black shoes, had well-maintained fingernails, and the someone took a rather large piece of cake for themselves without asking, and also took some of John's tea, minus the same courtesy; pulling a spare cup towards him. It snagged slightly on the thin paper mat as he pulled it. After pouring a cup, and re-filling John's own, John began to wonder and his hands shook as he took the cup, unable to look up at whoever it was opposite him. His mouth was suddenly dry, so he took a large gulp of tea. The simple smell of cologne hung in the air, just enough to be detected, but John ignored it and kept his eyes fixed firmly on an interesting bit of fluff on the table. He didn't want to look up, because then everything would be real. He was worried that if he looked up the illusion would melt away, a wraith, a vision sent to tease him and he would lose the moment so he kept staring at dust, at the menu, at the man's fingernails. That was, until the figure cleared his throat.

Disappointment clouded his thoughts.

"Oh, it's only you." He said.  
"No need to sound so disappointed, we're all friends here!" Mycroft smiled, though it looked slightly forced, and he threw down a folded up newspaper right next to John, who ignored it.  
"Well what is it?" John inquired, disinterested in what Mycroft had to say, a fact which the man was all too aware of.  
"This may sound like an odd question, but have you had any strange occurrences as of late?"  
John's head snapped up and thoughts bombarded him, and he wondered just how much Mycroft knew, and indeed if he was mad. Mycroft seemed to sense his discomfort, and smiled again, elbows on the table as he arched his fingers in front of him. John began to wonder if Mycroft knew something he wasn't telling, if indeed, Mycroft knew of Sherlock, or the man he supposed was Sherlock, more aptly put.  
"I uh. I mean. No, not really." John shrugged, and took another bite of his cake, though he wasn't as interested any longer. The man opposite followed suit, watching John all the while. After a second, he nodded with what seemed to be sympathy.  
"That's good, there should be nothing to worry about, at this point anyway." he paused, and took a sip of his tea. "It's rather safe to talk here, so we shall do so if that's alright with you?" The tone of his voice suggested that he really had no choice in the matter, so John just nodded, mouth slightly agape. Mycroft took this as a cue to continue.

"So, on to the bigger picture. You've been in contact with someone, have you not?"

John nodded, eyes fixed firmly on his hands. Of course the other Holmes knew! It was silly to think otherwise.  
"It's quite alright, I understand. In fact it is for that reason that I am here." He paused, took another bite of the cake, and watched John who mirrored the action, if only so he could do something with his mouth; he supposed he looked a bit daft, mouth open in shock. Eventually he managed to say something, though it came out as nothing more than a whisper, and he leaned in towards Mycroft conspiratorially.  
"Are we, are we on about the same person here?"  
Mycroft nodded.

"Yes of course we are. I am sure I don't need to mention names. But there is a matter of bigger importance, one that is ensuring you cannot see each other again." He paused and pushed a folder forward. It was brown, plain, and John opened it – inside was a variety of different papers, all featuring the same name.

Moran.

The man paused and then looked up at Mycroft for confirmation.  
"Who is this?"  
John paused, and glanced at a photograph, frowning. He wasn't a detective, could Mycroft really be expecting him to investigate this?

"And what does this have to do with me? I mean-" he stopped himself, took a breath, and for the first time looked the man opposite in the eye, leaning forward towards the other Holmes. "I mean, he's – I'm, we're- I'm, I'm not being followed am I?" The last few words came out as nothing more than a whisper, he leaned in towards the other Holmes to say it and Mycroft laughed, forever in the know, laughing at silly old John. In some respects, he had more in common with his brother than he realised.  
"No, no you're not. Moran is searching for you, though. And whilst that is happening, we cannot have you out and about." John paused, looking at him skeptically about to sip tea from an empty mug. He didn't say anything, though his raised eyebrows said it all. "My dear John, I have no reason to lie to you!" he offered his palms, a gesture of surrender and then continued. "It is simply that while Moran is searching for you, Holmes cannot be seen to be alive _and_ while Moran is searching for you, you are in danger."

John sighed, very tired all of a sudden, his memory flashing back to the pool and the explosives, that had been a less-than-enjoyable experience. A gun shot. The hound. There had been plenty of near-death experiences during his time with Sherlock Holmes, that had been a part of the appeal and he had always, despite everything, felt safe with Sherlock. But without him, he felt something he hadn't felt in a long while. Fear.

"I'm sure you've worked out that he's not dead by now, I know he's been sending you messages." Mycroft looked stern, though John was not worried. His suspicions had been confirmed, Sherlock was alive, that was all he had to know, and relief spread through him, warm and comforting.  
"How is he?" He demanded, rushing the words before he had even thought. Mycroft tutted.  
"I know you're desperate to see one another but he can't just see you right away. He's protecting you, he's always been protecting you." Again he adopted the condescending tone. John looked away, embarrassed, scanning the room to look for something to serve as a distraction for a while, then back to the brother with a small sigh. He did not say anything, so Mycroft took the chance to continue speaking.

"Essentially, Moran was under orders to neutralise you. He's a mercenary-for-hire but he was unable to carry out this task due to prior engagements in the Gaza strip, somewhere. Those prior engagements have been sorted out, and now he is back."  
Watson looked up at this, shocked at just how forward he was, even after all this time.  
"You may know or you may not, but Moriarty was not expecting to ..." Mycroft paused, waving his hand "well, you know." another pause as he finished his cup and signaled for another with a wave of the hand - the man behind the counter glared, daggers in his eyes. Mycroft continued "He had a fall-back option, if you will. Now, Moran was out of the country for quite some time and does not know that Jim Moriarty is dead, and it would be best if he did not find out. But he's searching for his, ah, employer. We had not thought it a problem but he has been sighted around London recently and well, we are all concerned." He paused, and looked at John. "Especially for your safety." Again, a pause, and a sigh. "Especially as your safety directly correlates with Sherlock's well-being."  
John nodded, flicking through the folder as if he understood, though the feeling in his chest was painful, like his heart might burst.

"Where's Sherlock, is he alright, how is he?" He repeated his previous demand, growing impatient at this conversation, he wanted to know about Sherlock, not about some mercenary and found himself babbling, stuttering, falling over his own words. Playing with Sherlock's name, a name he had not spoken out loud in quite some time.

Talks with Mycroft were always too long, the other man enjoyed having the control that only came with knowledge. He knew John would do nothing if there was a chance Sherlock would come back.  
"Temper, temper John." He smiled again, eyebrows raised slightly and that same irritating smile plastered across his face as he continued, ignoring all questions regarding his brother. "All Moran knows is that Sherlock was last seen with Moriarty, and that Sherlock has a _friend _called John Watson. So far we have not seen him in the flesh, but our sources tell us he's here." Mycroft paused, and looked away, nudging the paper he had brought with him towards John with his foot, sighing as he did. Then, he continued. "We have been able to keep him from you, but I'm afraid you will have to help us if you want to see my brother again. It's for your sake and his." he paused, and upon the arrival of another pot of tea, poured John a cup and then himself, eyeing up the remainder of cake all the while. The doctor finished quickly and poured himself more, suddenly needing its calming effects.  
"You see, Moran is under orders to destroy you and he will do so unless we can apprehend him. And poor Sherlock is not the most careful of individuals, so he's staying with me till we have got him." Mycroft Holmes stopped and stirred a cube of sugar into his tea, poured in some cream, then finished it relatively quickly, staring at Watson over the rim of the plastic cup. He cut another slice of cake though assured John it was for Sherlock and folded it neatly in a napkin and deposited it somewhere about his person, he patted the pocket as if to assure John of its safety.  
"And well, it would be greatly obliged if you could aid us in finding him. I'm rather tied up at the moment, you can imagine. It's entirely voluntary but if you want to see Sherlock then it would be advised that you help us."

At this, the man stood up and propped himself up with his umbrella, looking down at John with another fake smile. John sighed, and nodded.  
"I suppose I'd better" he whispered, picked up the cake - he put the remainder in his bag and decided to take it home for Mrs Hudson after all - then as an afterthought he picked up the paper that Mycroft had left. Mycroft had been watching him but upon this action, he nodded, and began walking away. Over his shoulder the last thing John heard him say was "he misses you, you know", then he was gone out of the door. John knew all too well not to follow him, the last time he had tried he was unable to follow for more than a street. Mycroft was very good at escaping it would appear.

But John wasn't thinking about that. John was not thinking about the huge task at hand, there was only one thought in his head and that was that Sherlock Holmes missed him. Him, John Watson. The brilliant man missed someone as dull as John, someone as normal as John. His heart beat fast, leapt up to his throat, and for a split second he smiled to himself, though it faded fast as he remembered the task ahead of him. A mercenary?

John had not been in service for quite some time, and though he could recognise the tell-tale signs of an ex-soldier, he was apprehensive about this task. But, if it got him closer to Holmes, to the man he loved and loathed in equal measure, he supposed that it was better than nothing; and surely this would be easier than the task Holmes himself had set Watson. John got up from the table, careful not to squash the cake and left the small café, returning to the safety of his apartment where there was nothing but him and the clocks. The doctor shut the door behind him, after leaving the cake beside Mrs Hudson's door and sat down at the table, laying the folder out in front of him so that he could better look at the materials within. He began wondering just how Sherlock had done this before, but remembered nothing except the violin that he had insisted upon playing; apparently it had helped him to think. John was not entirely sure of the reasoning behind this, but it had been a pleasant enough sound, and strangely relaxing too, to watch Sherlock staring out of his window and playing.

A sound he greatly missed now, for it was indeed nice although John suspected Sherlock didn't play it just for that, he was sure there was some element of "John, look at how impressive I am, John". He had had a constant, childlike need for recognition and praise, no matter how much he denied it, he had enjoyed an audience and even in death John had had to watch him. Admittedly, John had been impressed; the only instrument he had picked up was a recorder, and he had not got very far with that at all. He rested his head in his hands, suddenly realising just how tired he was. The events of the past few days had been draining, both emotionally and physically and he found that he was suddenly very, incredibly tired; a sort of tiredness that not only made him sleepy, but made his entire body feel heavy and dull and hard to move. Upon deciding that he could not possibly work with this level of fatigue, he fell asleep right where he lay.

John had under-estimated just how tired he was, and when he woke he found it was now the weekend, well after midday and though he knew he had been tired, he had not expected to be that tired. He got up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, yawning widely, stretching, and running a hand through his hair as he got up and decided that it was best if he now had a shower. The steady hiss of the warm jet filled the apartment and the doctor sighed with relief as he stepped underneath it, feeling considerably less stressed about this situation than he had done a few days ago. Upon finishing, he dried himself off, and put on a pair of trousers as he walked back through to the bedroom, in search of a shirt. He paused by a mirror and stared at the scar that shredded his shoulder – a oval of about an inch across, marbled pink flesh still raw from the attack.

Sherlock had only once seen John's scar, when the man had walked into his room, as he so often did, when John was in the middle of changing; he had taken one look and had, unfazed, demanded the story of how John acquired said scar. Of course Sherlock knew how John had gotten the scar, but he wanted to hear it straight from the horse's mouth. John had tried to distract him by asking him what he had gone in there for originally, but it had not worked, and John had spent a painful afternoon recalling the details of the particular assault that had earned him the scar, and Sherlock had not stopped even when John had gone white and his voice quivered. That day there had been no hug, and that day he had really despised Sherlock and that night he had a nightmare, and Sherlock was again, not open for comforting him. It was abstinent times like those that John really despised the man Sherlock Holmes, times when he seemed inhuman, an automaton: emotionless, and for obvious reasons, friendless.

No, not friendless. John was his friend, John was the only man who really understood Sherlock Holmes, really the only man who could stand him half the time. He pushed that particular memory out of his head as he buttoned up and returned to the kitchen where the files still lay, and John flicked on the kettle as he looked through the files in search of the photograph. There was none. He could have sworn he had a photograph before, but he couldn't see one, he pushed this thought away. The doctor decided to deal with this information at a later date, however, and instead decided to run through the facts he had at hand, and the facts were these: Sebastian Moran was a mercenary for hire who had at times worked for various criminals, gangs, and engaged in many an unsavoury activity. His exact age was unknown but he was thought to be in his mid-twenties. Adding to this the fact that he was dishonourably discharged from the military no more than six months into his career, for crimes unknown, and John was sure that he was not a man to be reckoned with. Indeed he began to doubt that he himself could reckon with such a man. Moran's most recent exploits involved orchestrating a car-bomb attack somewhere in Dubai, assassinating an important political figure in Sweden, and more recently a stint at the Gaza strip somewhere, liaising with a mysterious woman.

None of this information resulted in John feeling any safer. It seemed that this Moran had dubious morals and an expertise in all things that resulted in a rather painful death. None of this was particularly good news and all John's thoughts that had previously been spent on Sherlock were being reinvested in painful fantasies of the various ways Moran could probably murder him in cold blood. Yes, John had experienced military training but it had been years since his training, and what's more with his limp he was unsure that he would be any match against such a force. He scowled at this thought and gulped his tea, though it was now lukewarm and fairly unpleasant.

He racked his brains for someone who could give him access to files on this man, if indeed there were any. Of course, Mycroft was entirely useless in this matter, and had given him all he knew, or so he supposed. Besides, he was tied up with Sherlock; Molly did not have access to police-records, and neither did Mrs Hudson, he was quite sure. Police records were a matter for policemen. There was Anderson, but he had never liked Sherlock and he was sure that this disdain spread to Watson by osmosis, and this left him one option.

John had not spoken to Lestrade in months, the last time he had was when he had been practically forced out of his apartment for a stint down at the local pub, in which Lestrade checked up on him; how was he coping?; how were the family?; found any jobs yet? And John had answered his questions, and drunk a pint, and then gone home.

John did not suppose that Lestrade would even be that much help in this matter, and wondered just where he had put his number. In the ensuing search he found a newspaper article with a picture of he and Sherlock in it, just after he had recovered The Reichenbach Falls painting and John looked at it, and sat back down, reading through the article again. It filled him with a small amount of sadness. That was after all, the case that would result in the inevitable defeat of Mr Sherlock Holmes. It was underneath this paper that he found Lestrade's number, and he seized it with a cry, then decided to ring Lestrade after another cup of tea. Tea helped him think, just as Sherlock had his violin, John had his tea.

There he sat on the sofa and rang the number, begging Lestrade to pick up.

"Yes I'll have it black with two suga- aaah shit!" a voice on the other end picked up, and John couldn't help but smile.  
"Yes, hello, who is it?" Lestrade paused, and there was a sigh, evidently from him.  
"Hello Lestrade" John said. There was a pause on the other end of the phone.  
"Oh yes, hello there John. Blimey I wasn't-How are you?"

John paused, considering how to answer the question and ask for help without sounding suspicious, which given the circumstances, he may well have.

"I'm fine thank you, and you?"  
"I'm okay, stressed as usual, you know nothing new." the man sounded slightly concerned and it shone through in the tone his voice had taken.  
"Shame to hear that Lestrade." John said, leaning back on his couch. "Listen I hate to be a bother but I'm going through Sherlock's old cases and I need a bit of help."  
"What sort of help?" the man definitely sounded suspicious now, or maybe just tired.  
"Well I have a case here and it's quite concerning, and Mycroft asked me to pick it up as a favour to him and well, I need information." The doctor was shocked at just how quickly he could work his way through a lie, though this was not necessarily something bad, after all there were tiny little half-truths in there.  
"Hmm, and what might this case be?"  
"Well it concerns an associate of someone, and that someone was considered quite dangerous." John paused. "Well, it's essentially a murder case. A-a shooting to be precise."

There was a large gulp from the other side of the phone as Lestrade obviously began drinking whatever it was that he had ordered as they had been starting, and then a large sigh as he began speaking.  
"Listen John, I've been demoted. That débâcle with Sherlock put me down a few pegs, it's not my divi-"

John interrupted him "yes, yes I understand but can you possibly give me a hand? Mycroft wants it done low-key." John emphasised the name of the Holmes's brother, hoping that he might persuade Lestrade, he knew he was hedging his bets now.  
There was another sigh.  
"Well, John, I'll see what I can do. What information have you got?"  
"Name. That's it, there isn't much to work with on the page here, you know."  
"You really are beginning to sound like Sherlock, John. You should watch that, you don't want to end up like him." John bit his tongue and decided it was for the best that he didn't inquire just what Lestrade meant at this point. "Anyway, what's the name?"  
"Sebastian Moran." John paused, breath tangled in his throat, for a reply.  
"Ah, okay, well I'll see what I can do and get back to you."

Lestrade hung up first, and John decided it better to let him get on with things rather than pester him, and returned to the table and the folders, and began once again sorting through the information. This time around, he looked for specific haunts or places that Moran was likely to visit. Upon initiating this more methodical way of thinking, John had discovered that there was a pub in London that Moran liked to visit, but the thought that there was so much information readily available, yet no picture, was a mystery to John. And then it clicked. Moriarty. Mycroft had, though not directly, "interrogated" him, and undoubtedly the truth had come out that way, once of course, Mycroft had discussed Sherlock with him. He wondered just how much information Moriarty had gleaned from Mycroft in this way, facts in exchange for facts, and he felt a surge of anger for the other Holmes brother who had so brazenly sold out his own kin. But, it was for Sherlock's sake he worked now, so it was a case of swings and roundabouts.

John busied himself with searching for other known haunts. There was another place, in Soho, one that John had no intention of visiting by himself, and it would seem that Moran had a taste for pain, a specific sort of pain. Eyebrows raised, he cleared his throat and perused the other information. According to the file, he liked libraries; he frequented a swimming baths in the outer regions of London; and he was a member of a quiz group. These hardly seemed the sorts of things a trained mercenary would engage in, lest he was attempting to blend in with his natural environment. This thought worried John even more. Could he have already bumped into Moran in the street, could he have seen him and just not realised? If that was the case then Moran did, indeed, have the upper hand. John tried not to consider this as be began tidying up the papers, having gleaned all the information that he possibly could from them. He pulled them up and then deposited them on top of one of Sherlock's case files, not really caring for which, after all they were years old and the disputes had probably since been settled. John then stopped himself, and sat back down. He had a list of locations, and he had the means to find this Moran, he supposed, but he still had no idea what he looked like and that meant Moran could pose significant threat, especially if his suspicions were confirmed and the man indeed, knew what Watson looked like.

These thoughts now cluttered his mind. No longer did they so easily drift to Sherlock, though he wished that he could so easily think of the other man. The doctor decided to dress-down, and go to one of the pubs that Moran frequented, hoping to maybe do some investigating of his own. A preposterous thought, in all likelihood, but one he would entertain. Locking up after himself, he stepped out and Mrs Hudson, hearing the sound, came out to see what was going on.

"John, you're leaving!"  
"Stating the obvious there I'm afraid, Mrs Hudson" John smiled at her, though she tittered and hit him on the arm as he walked by. He did not notice the shake in her touch.  
"One of these days we'll have to sit down and watch some telly again Mrs Hudson" John said as he walked out, the landlady watched him leave with a worried look on her face. Behind her, a man emerged from her room, hands in pockets, whistling a tune as he did so, very casually. John didn't notice this either, and he left.

He was tall, easily taller than John, and lean. He wore large shades, though that did not serve much other than to hide a scar that tore through the left side of his face, the bottom of which could be seen poking out underneath. He also wore black skinny jeans and a plain white shirt, a crucifix hanging from his neck and a chain, no, a pocket watch, from his jeans. The man had messy blonde hair, too blonde to be natural, slicked back with gel and he was currently chewing on gum, a wry smile curving his thin mouth. Then, he crossed his arms and lowered his shades as he walked past Mrs Hudson, even going so far as to give her a double-guns and a wink as he walked by. She did not seem to be very happy with this, not in the slightest but she did not say anything, just stared at him.

"See ya later, old bird!" he said as he walked up the stairs, towards John's flat, picking through his pockets to find the spare key that the landlady had given him. At the top of the stairs he stood and watched Mrs Hudson.  
"It's quite alright, missus, I can handle this myself. Just a little detective work!" he smiled, turned on the balls of his feet, and walked towards the door, opening it with little fuss. The curious man entered the apartment, whistling a tune as he did so. From the sounds of it, it was "Pop goes the weasel".

John, many streets away now, occupied his thoughts with other things, not thinking about the -by now- rather colourful ways in which he could be killed by a mercenary out for blood, nor the ways in which he missed Sherlock, concentrating only upon the task at hand. The pub he was headed for in question was just adjacent to Leicester Square, and was not one that John had been to before, in fact he had not frequented many pubs in wake of the fall, he no longer socialised much at all. He found it all too painful, people either pitied him or went deliberately out of their way to protect him; both, in his opinion, infuriating habits. The fact that Lestrade had not yet got back in contact with him was a distant concern, he just wanted to get everything over and done with so that he might see the man he adored once more. Patience may have been a virtue, but not one he could afford.

The pub itself was typical fare; it stunk like sweat and alcohol, and, even more unpleasantly, in some bits, like vomit. A karaoke machine stood in the corner and people picked songs so that they could sing along, adding, obnoxious pop music to the already overbearing sounds and even more obnoxiously bad singers. John sat in the corner for a while, perched on a barstool, trying to recall just what Sherlock had picked out in him upon their first meeting; the hair, the posture, the limp. That, frustratingly, was all he could remember. He paused, and sipped at the beer he had picked out, suddenly not interested much in detective work or his alcohol, but it gave him a chance to survey the room. All manner of people sat in the pub, from young men in fashionable attire to middle-aged businessmen in sharp suits. Still, he stayed, drinking several pints while he watched the crowds. After a few sweeps of the room, John turned to the bartender.  
"Uh, hello?"  
The bartender looked up from the taps, and acknowledged his presence with a gruff "yeah?"  
"I was just wondering, about regular customers who come here. You see, I'm looking for someone."  
John paused, and sighed, and the bartender raised an eyebrow.  
"What's it to yeh?"  
John stared, oblivious, for a few seconds, until the barkeep rubbed his thumb and forefinger together - then John realised what he meant, and dug about in his pockets for a twenty. He sincerely hoped Mycroft would reimburse him.  
"Whassa name of this customer then?"  
"Moran."  
The barkeep paused, thinking for a few minutes whilst John watched on.  
"Nah, never 'eard of 'im!"  
John sighed, and finished off his pint.  
"Well, thank you anyway."

A few hours had passed, it was now well after ten, and John was no closer to his target. His mouth tasted sticky, and he realised he was slightly drunk. Something he had not been in quite some time – Sherlock had dissuaded any form of drinking when he was around, he found the habit repulsive and in hindsight John could almost see why, it was not the most enjoyable experience. The thought only made John miss Sherlock even more, the man who had in the end, been looking out for him all along.

Then, and only then, did he catch the tube home. At this time – as it was quite late by now- it wasn't that full, and the empty halls of the station were eerily quiet, something that had always spooked John out quite a lot. John's vision blurred and as he walked on he began to regret that last drink he had bought and perhaps the last three drinks he had bought had maybe been a bad idea. Going out and getting slightly drunk had done nothing to change the situation, he didn't have any information, and it was senseless; it had done nothing to change the ache that now spread through his body. John missed Sherlock. The only remnants he held of the man he held dear being memories and memories did not suit him well. All he wanted back was Sherlock, his Sherlock. A simple request, surely. But no, Mycroft had to barter with John, holding the man up as a prize. They were psychopaths, the lot of them. He realised just how much he hated the Holmes family as a whole, with their abstinent and irritating ways of being passive aggressive towards one another, and how it had now spread on to John himself. The doctor's emotions threatened to hold their grip on him, as anger bubbled through. Still, he managed to stumble home, the cold air sobering him up a little, so he was no longer too drunk, but still drunken enough that he found it hard to walk.

Despite that, he managed to get home well enough, and Mrs Hudson was waiting for him, sat on the doorstep, wrapped in a nightgown, pink fluffy slippers on her feet, a fact he found strange. Not so much her choice of pyjamas – he had seen those before – but the fact she was out, on the step, at such an hour.

"What's wrong?" He said, as he walked up the stair, despite the dizzying feeling in his head and his bad leg he felt he managed it quite well, quite well indeed. She paused, and then with his aide, got herself up.  
"I've done a bad thing John" she whispered, suddenly pulling him close into a tight hug that he couldn't pull free from, be that for her own strength or the fact he was, in a word, pissed. Still, her words worried him more than just a little bit.  
"There was someone and he wanted to see your room so I let him see, I just gave him the key. I think he's dangerous. He looked dangerous." she whispered urgently, leaning in towards John so that the aforementioned stranger might not hear it. She seemed close to tears, so he patted her reassuringly and then pulled back and smiled, motioning for her to step inside.  
"Never you mind, it's not a problem. Not your fault at all, so long as you're not hurt in any way, that's all that matters." He whispered. "Now go inside. I'll deal with this okay?" he pushed the door open and poked around for something moderately heavy that he could manage with his cane, and found a poker in the umbrella stand outside Mrs Hudson's door.

He did not feel quite as brave as his demeanor suggested. The thought that he was drunk, and therefore slightly incapacitated, did not occur to him. John carefully walked up the stairs, shooing the elderly lady into her room as he propped his own door open with his foot. Inside smelled like cigarette smoke, and seen as he did not smoke, and the only other man who might pursue such interests was being held somewhere, he had no idea who this could be. Then, he remembered Mycroft's wish, and Moran, and the pieces began fitting together; he cursed himself for drinking so much when he should have been more alert.

He pushed the door and walked in to the room slowly, poker held out in front of him defensively, as if such a thing could help if a trained marksman had decided to give him a shot. Inside sat a man, a rather handsome man if not for the scar, eating Chinese from a small container on the table, cigarette in his other hand. Upon entering, John looked at him and lowered the poker, more confused than anything.  
"Hey!" he shouted, at a loss of anything else to say.  
The man at the table jumped up, wiping his hands on his black jeans and strode forward, offering up a hand to John, who took it and shook weakly, all the more confused.  
"Hello there, sorry about the mess I got hungry waitin'!" the man smiled, talking rather loudly and rather energetically, motioning that John should sit down. "'Ere, you want some?" He passed the container over, inside were the remains of a chicken chow mein, John shook his head and looked up the man leaned in towards John, the smile all too malicious for John's comfort. In the kitchen, the kettle boiled and the man stood up, walked through, and returned with two cups; one, he offered to John, who in his slightly inhibited state, took it without so much as a second thought, while the other man sipped at his own cup, staring intensely across at the doctor.  
"You're John Watson!" the man stated, a little too excitedly, he bounced on the ball of his foot, pacing up and down the room though always kept the table between him and John.  
"Yes, yes that's me" he said, taking a sip from his cup as he sunk down into the chair. It tasted weird, slightly bitter. The man on the other side of the table nodded.

"Oh, but where are my manners? I'm Sebastian, Sebastian Moran. My friends call me Sebby." He paused, and licked his lips, grinning and all the while showing a few too many teeth, in something of a threatening manner. A shark's grin. John paused, then cautiously wet his own lips and said.  
"Right, okay, and what do I owe the pleasure of this visit then, Sebby?" He spoke calmly, enunciating his words slowly as if that could possibly defuse the situation, a flash of anger appeared upon the other man's face.  
"My friends call me Sebby, Mr Watson. You ain't my friend I'm afraid." he stopped, pulled off his shades so that he could better stare at John then threw them across the table and continued, pulling on the cigarette between his slender fingers. "No doubt you've heard of me, because I've heard'a you." he stirred a spoon around in his cup all the while, presumably stirring in sugar, staring at John. His smile vanished.


End file.
